


Look on Tempests

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, S2E4 spoilers, Valantha's Bedspread, but they are also terribly adorable, they are f-ed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mayhem go on a date…and there’s a sweet little hand job at the end. What can I say? I’m feeling romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look on Tempests

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the initial dialogue is taken from S2E4. With titular apologies to the Bard.

“Guy was wearing a hell of a mask." A distracted attempt at reassurance.

Miles glances around the apartment he’s taken in downtown Willoughby so as not to vex Gene with his incessant presence. This is Miles’ _home_ now, something he hasn’t dared claim since The Grand. The quaint little red, white, and blue bedspread, the wax museum of candles, the inoperative fan – all his possessions. Of course, the staying out of Gene’s hair thing had temporarily evaporated while Rachel lay ailing. Miles had barely left her side for thirty-six hours…until he did, and she chose _that_ of all moments to rouse so that he could fail her once again. Stubborn as hell right down to the way she wakes from a coma, Rachel would forever manage to refuse all help.

But whether she opens her own wrist or takes an arrow to the chest, Miles is determined to make up for each compounded failure. He’d spent so many hours observing this woman these past six months that he knows her every centimeter – the milky, elegant fingers, the minute flare of nostrils when she breathes out, the flutter of thick eyelashes when she dreams. He’d sat transfixed by the creamy thigh, kicked free of its blankets, and tucked it back in so she didn’t catch a chill. Uncomplaining, he'd taken his turn spooning watery gruel between the pink lips, and yes, emptying her chamber pot. He’d even wiped her ass. And he would do it all over, again and again, and still never be able to reset the dial on what he owes. But he wouldn’t have been a successful general if it weren’t for his stupid, futile tenacity.

Automatically, without weighing the implications, Miles hears himself say aloud, “Whatever’s going on here, we can fix it.” Then he catches the wary blue eyes. “What?”

“Last time I tried to fix something I broke everything.”

There it is. Who has won the right to hate himself or herself more? “All right. Come on, Rachel.”

“Who’s to say it’s not going to happen again?” she insists. 

The little bit of desperation that claws into her tone makes his chest sting. Wiping her ass he can do, but this part – the comforting boyfriend part – he’s shit at. Even smiling at her feels unnatural to his face, though he does feel genuine pleasure in her presence. He’s just not a happy person.

“That is not going to happen again,” he emphasizes. But just saying it doesn’t make it so. “I won’t let it.” _Shit_. She turns away. As if he’s ever managed to prevent bad things from happening, least of all to her. But she’s being awfully nice about it and doesn’t call him on his bullshit. Why are they being so goddamn nice to each other these days?

“So what are we gonna do?”

“Well this is an occupation. Every good occupation deserves a resistance, right?” His version of a grin toys at his lips, and he tosses back the rest of the whiskey...

And immediately wants more. Because he’s a miserable, fucking drunk, and he knows it. He’s just about to reach for the bottle and ask her if she wants another – perhaps to blunt the shame of his own need – when she interrupts,

“You won’t tell my dad right?”

“Hm?”

She’s watching his hand frozen on the amber-filled glass bottle…or so he imagines in his contrition. Knowing Rachel, her mind is deeply buried elsewhere.

“About Ken? I wrapped this hand myself. It’s just…Dad didn’t want me getting into trouble with the Patriots, and that’s the first thing I did.”

“What are we teenagers? ‘Course I won’t tell on you. Your life’s your own.”

She closes her eyes and seems to turn that over. It’s like he can hear her brain whirring. It’s sexy. And exhausting. Miles pinches the bridge of his nose with his good hand, before resting it on _her_ good hand to make sure she’s ok. It’s become second nature these days – touching each other only with the functioning parts of their bodies. Miles alternately zones out and thinks a little more on whether or not to pour himself another drink.

Finally, Rachel just kind of deflates backward onto the bed, and that’s enough to jolt Miles out of his slump. He discards his jacket and slides up next to her, telling his brain to shut up about the booze already, putting physical distance between himself and the damn whiskey, all the while still obsessing over it. He gathers her silky head onto his chest and strokes, because she has that familiar molasses-almond smell, and if anything can help him forget himself, it’s that delicious fresh-cookie hair.

Her mouth muffled half on his skin, half on his shirt: “Now _this_ feels like we’re teenagers.”

Miles is aware of the sweat that’s darkened the armpits of his red t-shirt and is ashamed at his own barnyard perfume. His heart actually flutters a little, because, well, they hadn’t done anything but hug until yesterday, when they’d locked lips in the alley. That wasn’t any old kiss either. Without thinking, he’d shoved his knee between her legs, his tongue into her mouth, and _fuck_ – he’d felt it all below the belt. Of course, Aaron had interrupted them before anything else happened.

“Nah. If we were teenagers, this would be followed up with copious amounts of dry humping.”

Rachel rasps a dry laugh. “That doesn’t sound all bad.”

She’s coming on to him, and where Miles should be getting excited, he’s feeling oddly disembodied. “Yeah, women always like dry humping more than men,” is what he says with a forced chuckle.

Rachel snorts at this, nuzzles into him a bit more, kissing the part of his chest that’s exposed by his v-neck. Damn, he feels enormous affection for this woman. He tries not to fixate on the fact that here he is, horizontal with her on his bed, exactly what he’s been waiting for, and yet, he’s not getting hard.

…

“Well this is an occupation. Every good occupation deserves a resistance, right?”

Rachel watches Miles toss back the last of his whiskey. She shakes her head a little. Of course, it’s what she wanted to hear, right? That Miles would help her take down the Patriots? That Miles hasn’t _really_ changed, hasn’t properly learned that it’s not his job to save the world, and, in fact, he’s not very good at it?

Yes, it’s what she wanted to hear, and she loves him for it, though a fucking neon sign might as well light up over their heads announcing: The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions. She leans back on her good hand and inhales. Miles’ room smells like him: a little spicy, a little feral, the sharpness of whiskey. She wouldn’t mind if they stripped down and lay skin to skin under that cute little blanket. It’s not that she even feels like sex – she just wants to be close, to be entirely ensconced in that heady, masculine scent.

Beds make her think of the bed she recently spent so much time in at her father’s house, and then she panics and asks: “You won’t tell my dad right?”

“Hm?”

“About Ken? I wrapped this hand myself. It’s just…Dad didn’t want me getting into trouble with the Patriots, and that’s the first thing I did.”

“What are we teenagers? ‘Course I won’t tell on you. Your life’s your own.”

Rachel closes her eyes. _My life is my own._ What does that mean to the caged beast, who has only recently been emancipated? And now she is locked in another scripted tale, one in which the Patriots author the plot. Can she and Miles offer sufficient resistance to alter the climax of the story? The outcome? Unlikely, though if anyone can unleash mayhem, it's them. 

Rachel flops backward, and in a moment, Miles (who removes his long-sleeve, exposing muscled arms) joins her. The smell of him intensifies, and she buries her face in his chest, pressing her lips against the fine hair there.

“Now _this_ feels like we’re teenagers,” she laughs.

“Nah. If we were teenagers, this would be followed up with copious amounts of dry humping.”

“That doesn’t sound all bad,” she offers, thinking about how much she wants to lift off his shirt and stroke his chest like he’s her pet animal. But when she slides her fingers onto his bare belly, he cringes, and her heart skips a beat. What has she done wrong? Nora? 

“Miles…”

“Sorry,” he apologizes automatically, as if he’s not sure for what.

The sun is drooping outside, and Rachel finds she can’t bear the thought of sleeping alone. She’ll press for it then. “Can I stay here tonight?” She’s not looking up at his face, but she can feel him swallow. “I don’t mean we have to have sex. I just…I want to sleep with you, if that’s ok.”

“Of course you can stay.”

“Is something wrong?” she asks, attempting to read his tone. There’s definitely something off between them.

“No,” he responds too quickly. To be fair, Miles sometimes doesn’t even seem to understand what’s wrong with himself. He adds, “I don’t have anything to eat here. You want to get some dinner?” 

“What like…like a date?”

Miles chuckles abruptly. It is ludicrously banal, the idea of them going on a date.

But he answers, “Yeah. A date.”

…

How magnificently strange to lead Rachel by the hand through the streets of her hometown, pumpkin pie wafting through the crisp fall air. They get sweet potato and beef stew at a food stall and sit outside in comfortable silence.

At some point, Rachel attempts to bring up the Patriots again, but Miles silences her with a look. _Not safe._ But her mind never stops working. She turns instead back to them, and it’s not as easy to shut that topic down. 

“This is bizarre, right? Being here together…It’s like I’m back in high school, dating the captain of the football team.” 

“I was running back. Not captain.” Miles slides his fingers into hers across the rickety table. 

“Please don’t explain what that is to me again. The one good thing about the Blackout is that I never have to pretend to care about sports again.”

Miles snorts and gestures with his sore hand. “So this is where you grew up.”

She nods as the steam from her soup curls around her nose.

“It’s cute. I like it," he offers.

“God. I hated it growing up.”

“Is that why you shed the accent?” Miles hasn't really had the chance to ask her about her former life in Willoughby, she's spent so much of their sojourn here unwell.

“Never really had one, since my parents aren’t from Texas. But yeah, I wasn’t about to permanently associate myself with these…”

“Hicks? _Please_. They’re nowhere near as country as Jasper folks.”

“Hehe. Jasper. Is that why you got engaged at twenty years old? Nothing else to do?”

The words come like a knife at Miles’ pancreas. His eyes fall to his food as he retracts his hand, but Rachel manages to catch his fingers in transit.

“Miles, what did I say?”

He can’t look at her, just shakes his head. So much she doesn't know. So much they missed of each other in the months they were separated. He tries to tell her, but it's difficult to find the words. “Emma…Bass killed her.”

“What? Jesus. When did he… _how_?”

“I…can we just…?”

“Sure. I’m sorry, Miles. Our lives are sprinkled with landmines. You want to go home?”

“Yeah.”

As they walk back, the night chill cuts to Miles’ creaking knees, and Rachel loops her arm through his, squishing her right breast against his bicep. He can feel the nipple beneath hardened by the cold.

… 

Back at the apartment Rachel removes her boots, socks, and pants, and plops cross-legged in her underwear and button-down shirt on the bed, pondering the possible agonies Miles and Charlie endured in her absence en route to the Tower. She never asked, and for the first time, she wonders.

“Gonna wash up. Shave.” Miles pours some water into a pan and sits before a cracked mirror with a razorblade. The last time Rachel saw one of those, she used it to open her vein. “Feel free to do the same,” Miles nods at his bucket of water, but she is transfixed by the sight of him lifting off his shirt, revealing the familiar map of scars and tattoos engraved into his skin.

He splashes water onto his beard and rubs on the shaving soap one-handed. It’s clearly awkward business for Miles, shaving with his non-dominant hand, and after a few moments, Rachel pads barefoot behind him and takes the razor from him. His chocolate eyes shift up toward her - pain, resignation. She likes the raw scraping sound the blade makes against his cheeks and neck. When she’s finally shaved him clean, she wets a cloth and wipes his face. Then she steps over his long legs and sinks into his lap to kiss his lemony lips. They collapse into one another, and Rachel really allows herself to lean into this hug, squeeze deeply, take what she needs.

After a time, Miles pulls back and kisses her on the forehead. “Gonna finish washing up. Trust me – you’ll appreciate it if you're gonna share my bed.”

She smiles and retreats.

“Um…if you wouldn’t mind.” Miles’ cheeks are mildly red, and Rachel realizes that he’s planning on washing more than his armpits.

She grins and says, “Well, don’t bother getting redressed then,” before removing the last of her clothes and getting under the covers. Miles’ bedclothes have a nice weight to them. By the time he blows out the firestorm of candles and settles next to her, she’s pleasantly sleepy. He pulls her into his arms, his cool flesh puckered by goosebumps.

Rachel slides her hand along the ridges of his chest and abs and makes it far enough down that she grazes pubic hair. She senses him holding his breath. 

“Ok if I touch you?” she whispers into his neck and feels him nod. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather keep me out of it. For tonight. Still recovering.” He nods again. Bless Miles for not asking questions. She’s not exactly sure why her body has soured on her now that they are here naked in bed. But she’s inexplicably just not ready.

She slips her fingertips through the wiry hair until she reaches baby-soft skin. It moves into her touch, and she caresses it with the side of her hand. Grazing the head with her thumb, she hears him exhale, his breath hitching just the tiniest, sexiest fraction. Then taking it fully into her grasp, she closes her eyes to appreciate its weight, its silky texture. She’s always loved the way Miles’ penis feels in her hand. She spits into the fingers of her injured hand to introduce some lubrication, so that he can enjoy himself, which he appears to, melting forward and groaning softly. There’s something so innocent about it – giving the man she loves a hand job – like she’s regressed to adolescence, before there was intercourse. This feels right.

She works him harder with her undamaged hand, pausing every now and then to run her palm over the weeping head. She smears the little pearl of precum around and that produces a soft, little gasp of “Rachel!” that resonates somewhere deep in her pelvis. A glance at his face tells her that he is close: his eyes tightly shut, his tongue just parting his lips. So she jacks him more furiously, until he collapses inward, spasming, the light spray of cum on her fingers and up toward her breasts. Miles shakes. His forehead careens into her shoulder, as he reaches out to hold her, needing comfort.

After a moment he pulls back and asks uncertainly, “Are you sure you don’t...?” 

“I’m sure. You’re lovely. I missed that.”

He tucks her against his side, but she still senses tension. “Rachel, I…”

“Miles, you’ve been through a lot caring for me these past months. I wanted to do something for you.” She smiles in the darkness.

“Huh. I only said that to you earlier to keep you out of trouble. Not that it worked. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I didn’t say owe. I said _want_.”

 


End file.
